Evening Star Newspaper, December 2, 1893, Page 18

18 FROM FAR LIBERIA.| A Novel Collection Received at the National Museum. TRIBES THAT ARE YET UNCIVILIZED, | But They Are Expert Wood and Iron Workers. FOLLOWERS OF THE PROPHET. NE OF THE LAT- est additions to the ‘tches of the National Museum is a collec- tion of about 200 ob- fects from the in- terior of Liberia. The material was gather- ¥ ed by Prof. O. Cook of Kingston, Y., during his travels and explorations in that country for the Colonization Soctety of New York, to q@hich the museum is indebted for this | Yaluable acquisition. A Star man found the col.ection in Mr. Hough’s room in the museum, undergoing the indentifying and poisoning process, which is the fate of all the objects that enter that institution, before they are plac- 8d on exhibition. Piled up, as they are, in B more or less confused heap, they would Bot attract the attention of one on the Yookout for the beautiful, as they possess that blackened and grimy appearance | which ts characteristic of all such coliec- tions from the dark continent. But a ciose inspection will disclose no little skill in| @ecoration and workmanship; indeed, | some of the objects of leather are marvels | Of fineness and dexterity. ‘The territory in which the researches of Prof. Cook were nade is occupied by the Mandingo, the Golah and the Pessan tribes. These tribes have been very littie @ffected by contact with civilization, and Fetain many of their old superstitions. One of the most curious of these is their cus- tom of putting out all the tires in the vil- lage and relighting them from one kindled By lightning, if they are fortunate enough to have such a stroke of luck. They have, Rhowever, imbibed many religious ideas trom the Mahomedans, as have numerous other @f the coast tribes, so that their religious @ustoms are a mixture of fetishism and Mahomedanism. The religion of the prophet is modified &s near as possible to suit their own ideas. An instance of this is shown in their gre- grees or fetishes, in which they have a characteristic and abiding negro faitn. These charms are made by the holy men, and usually consist of sentences from the Koran, inclosed in little bags or pouches of leather. These bags are excellent ex- amples of the beautiful leather work in which the Mandingos excel. There are sev- eral of them in the collection, and one ts shown in the accompanying drawing of charms and fetishes. It is a wooden case, covered with finely tanned black and red ‘eather. At each end is a wooden pendant, also covered with leather,and a wooden but- ton covered with red cloth. The cord by which the pouch is suspended round the Reck is of a number of strands of soft leather, so finely plaited that in running the fingers over it not an uneven spot can De felt. Expert in Metal Work. Sword scabbards are made of two pieces ef wood, guttered on the inner side to admit the blade, and are usually carved with nu- merous rings and buttons. The two sides are fitted together and covered with leather of various colors, in many instances with the hair on. The leather is put on wet and allowed to shrink, holding the wooden frame together. While the leather is yet wet it is embellished with designs made by sconing with a blunt iron point, the impression re- maining after the leather has dried. Prob- ably the only purely aesthetic article in the whole collection is a very elaborate piece of wood carving, as usual made from a single block. It represents what is presumably intended to be a snake in the act of swal- Jowing a man. The man, who is painted brown, sits on the ground and offers no re- sistance, and the snake, which is colored an intense blue, picked out with red stripes Wears two full rows of teeth and a smile of extreme satisfaction. This piece of work is Probably the result of missionary influence. ‘An interpretation by the artist of the rela- @ons existing between mankind and the arch d as he understood them from mission- ary teachings. Most interestin: lection is a medicine b Blade of close-grain the prescription ailment it is sun; Washed off and t. Walid. Thus he lite takes the prescrip tion; whether it cures him or no Stated. In contrast to the generally hue of the collection is a Golah cap, of what was o: made iginally blue flannel, but time @nd much service have turned it to an olive green. It is embroidered in red and white darning cotton, with a in stitch that is @ecidedly civilized. It was probably time Passed under direction of some humble missionary. The musical instruments of this tribe are of the most primitive types. The Mandingo suitar is a small gourd with @ section cut away s eep- kin head. The iable stick run} through th urd. the upper end being s single string of | twisted paiin fiber. It has a very high bridge, | Which Mr. Houzh had great ditficui uf hile he ran the Reeping upright w he did bending the Kk of t ning the strin it again 2 @lly tightening jote by ailow a out. | whe tone is ver banjo} civilization. a flat board, with strips of bamb warious lengths. These are tied to the Qoards in the middle and the ends are sed by crosswise strips run beneath! THE EVENING STAR: WASHINGTON, D. C., SATURDAY. DECEMBER 2, 1893-TWENTY PAGES. The principle of the instrument is that which the boys use when they weave a lath in the palings of a fence and snap the projecting end. The accompanying sketch will show the construction better than it can be described. The instrvments of war of these tribes, like their musical instruments, are of the simplest and earliest forms. Their swords, daggers, spear and arrow heads are of native wrought steel and have a sort of ragged keenness which is very effective. All of their spears or assegais are very short handled, showing that. like the Romans of old, they fight at close quarters, and it is not known that they use any shields or protective armor. An Un al Defense. While describing the weapons and their uses Mr. Hough took from a corner of the tray a round black wicker box and handed it to The Star man. It was filled with what appeared to be toothpicks of an unusual size. They were made of bamboo, sharp- ened at one end and hardened by being burnt and scraped. They were about six inches long. These little sticks, Mr. Hough said, were used as weapons of defense and in the fol! they have r: hostile tribe the natives go ou sans of these little Kc: in all th hs to the v! in the ground at short distances apart. The sharp ends are | uppermost and when the enemy jumps awares with thus giving the natives and disclosing the point of at pearance these people ar2_ ts made. They have the woolls not the thick lips of the true n women are well formed and are ly than is usual with the Afri trit y Mahom- beliefs and The new moon the hands and d. They ac- vine that an where in the sky moon and the Although so strongly influenced by ed nism many of their old stoms are still retained. is saluted by spitting on raising them ahove the count for the eclipse by enormous cat living som puts his paw between t earth. Curious Customs. Mahomedanism has abolished? human sac- rifice, but it has net cured them of lying and stealing, traits which, however, are not confined to savage tribes. So great is their faith in their charms of gregrees that a wealthy man is often incased in a leather covering made from the charm cases. When a king dies his body is buried in a secret place, for they believe that an enemy be- coming possessed of his blade bone could from it make a gregree that would en- able them to usurp the powers of the rightful king. Marriages are solemn- ized in mosques in a manner which is a mixture of native and borrowed cus- toms. Next to the marabut or priest the bridegroom's sister plays the most im- portant part in the ceremonies, as she al- so does in the future household. It is she who gives the wedding ring or its equiva- lent in thaf country, a pair of trousers. The sight of this article of apparel given to the bride must have a very dampening effect on the prospective husband. The sis- ter also has the privilege of naming the childrey Polygamy is universally practiced and divorces are extremely rare—ior very good reasons. If a man puts a’ he is attacked en masse’ by spouse. This is not done so much out of love for each other, but as a means of mu- tual protection. One of the oldest supersti- tions of these tribes is that upon a mount- ain in Upper river dwells an ugly spirit whose chief delight is In afflicting folks in such a manner that they are unable to sit down comfortably for the rest of their lives. To propitiate this fiend the natives in pass- ing this hill unclothe themselves from the waist down, turn their backs to the mount- ain and pray the spirit to be merciful. It is only necessary for a person to perform the ceremony once, as the spirit is satisfied with the acknowledgment of his prowess, and for those who do not care to do it at all a substitute can be obtained for a smal! consideration. NDINGO Nips Two Prong DIRK rticles of food of the tribe are although the more weaithy indulge in many luxuries. Mr. W. Reed gives an account of a very elaborate enter- tainment prepared by half-breed Mandin- gos. “First we had oysters plucked from the branches of trees, where they had at- tached themselves at high water, and are left suspended when the flood recedes. “Then there were soles, carp and mullet, all very bad, but well cooked. Then fol- lowed gazelle cutlets, a la papillate, two small monkeys served cross legged and with liver sauce, on toast; stewed iguana, which was much admired; a dish of roasted crockodiles’ eggs; some slices of smoked elephant from the interior (of the country, not the elephant), which none of us coul a few agreeable plates of fried lo- . land erabs and other crutaceae; the sts of a mermaid or manatee, the grand bouche of the repast; some boiled al- which had a taste between pork d hog. with the addition of a musty fla- d_ some hippopotamus steaks and de terre. * “We also had pineapples, oranges, roasted silver bananas pau paus and a of fruits which had long native variety names, curious shapes, and all of them very Swallowing a Pin. From the Gentlewoman. I have often looked with alarm at the amateur and professional dressmaker, who invariably makes a pincushion of her mouth, regardless of possible consequences, and in my fgnorance I have wondered, “Now, if one of those pins lodged in that are ker’s throat, how should I attempt to e cate it." Today I am wiser. If there were a brisk fire at hand, I should instantly proceed to make a stiff little dumpling of flour and ter, bake It til it was quite hard, end then give the unfortunate victim a ‘ploce about the size of a small walnut to swallow. The chances are that the point of the pin 1 adhere to this, and loose its tension | rapidly wiped out the pan. | a flirt with his wings and flew away up the amore | “THEM CHICKADEES.” A THANKSGIVING STORY. (Copyright, 1893, by Harper and Brothers.) From Harper's Bazar. RS. FRIER WAS pouring her dish wa- ter around the roots of the quince bush. This bush grew a few yards from the rear door of the L. There was a little rustle among the bare boughs of the sugar maple; and among tho. boughs there was a brisk, call of “chic dee!" the last notes sounding shrill and clear in the still, damp air. The woman held her tin pan poised in her extended hand as she listened. The middle-aged, handsome and rather hard face seemed to break up in some way as the bird repeated his call. Then the face stif- fened again. She had her dish cloth in her other hand, and, still standing there, she The bird gave pasture. Mrs. Frier twist around the pan she stepped briskly into agered to look out of nik. performed one ith the cloth, then hot But she vindow over the Land!” she exclaimed, “I guess I'v beard a chickadec before. I d’know ¥ come over me to get up any kind of deelin’ "bout that bird.” © many people who live alone, Mrs. r had failen into the it of talking She said it w kind of con 3, and she'd a good deal uther talk to herself than to some iolks + knew. She began to sw the kitchen. She wondered why there was a sense of urry upon her. ‘This sense coufused her slightly, for she was usuaily deliberately rate in all her Now she sd the dust t (pan over the | ove, ad of pouring it > che ade her Having done this she out of the window into the “Them chickadees aiw in the fall of the year,” moment she added: most all the oui “lf carefully wash stove. veai thick And ina ius one. There ain't many of them that Thanksgiving. 1 s'pose the x the proclamation temorr Its the turn for the orthodox to have the union meetin’ to their meetin’ house. But folks ha to take their choice Thanksgiving whether they'll neglect religious services or run the risk of havin’ the turkey burnt to a crisp.” Mrs. Frier was standing in the middle of the room, glancing about her to see if the work was entireiy “done up.” There was something domineering in her glance and in her whole aspect. Everything appeared to be in order. The wood box behind the Steve was full, but as her eye fell upon it she started toward the door. She went to the neat little wood shed back of the house and filied her arms with wood. On her re- turn she paused in the path, standing erect and strong with her burden. She appeared to be listening. From a short distance of the pasture slope a bird flew out of a savin tree. In an instant the woman heard his cheery call. it was a chickadee, and his cry came to her plainly. Then she knew she had come out hoping to hear this, and not because she needed wocd. Sne hurried in, dropping a couple of sticks as she went. “I decare,” she exclaimei, in a whisper. Having suc- ceeding in piing the wood on the already heaped wood ox, Mrs. Frier sat down r elutely in her rocker by the end window This windoy commanded the road, and the woman ¢lways intended to be sitting in it at precisely this time in the forenoon. She was in t!e habit of asserting that folks that didn’t Fave no regularity "bout any- thing couldn’: never git long. She had in times past made this assertion with great frequency to her husband, who had been conspicuous for not having any regularity about anything, and it was undeniable that Hosy Frier had not got along. The back door of the old Frier house opened directiy into the pasture, and the pasture sloped up- ward to the top of Hickory Hill. Hosy used to say that he had the biggest door yard of anybody in the county. He said also that he ought to have something or other to make up to him, for “there wasn't an acre of first-rate ioam in the whole concern;” which was true, for his farm was poor even among poor farms. But Hosy, being shiftiess, in the secret re- cesses of his heart was glad that there was so littie loam and so much gravel. He could always have an excellent reason for his insufficient crops. He used to explain in the grocery store, with not the least sense of irreverence, that the Almighty himself couldn't raise a good crop without more loam than there was on the Frier farm. But everybody liked Hosy Frier. Even Susannah Gleeson promptly responded to his love-making and married him; and she was the liveliest girl there was ‘going to singing schools and prayer meetings that winter. “If there was anything,” people said, “that could make a thrifty man of Hosy, that thing was Susannah Gleeson.” Susannah had five thousand dollars in her own right, and she was wise enough to re- tain this in her name, Indeed, Hosy advised her to do this. He said it would make her independent, and if things didn’t go right with him, “why, Susannah, you'll be all right anyway.” ‘is And things didn’t go right with him at all. All he had was the rocky farm whiciyhe had inherited, and this he mortgaged in he sec- ond year, without telling his wife precisely what the paper was to which she put her name. But she trusted him then. ‘There wa'n’t a better-hearted feller goin’ than Hosy,” everybody said. But he went down hill as fast as if he had not had a good heart, faster perhaps. He had a mania for trading. He was always swapping horses and cows, and losing in the exchange. Then folks began to pity him, and to say they guessed “Susannah held ruther of a tight rein over him.” But Hosy always main- tained that he “had the best wife in the world. He wa'n't half good ‘nough for her.” At the end of ten years there did not seem to be anything left to swap, and the interest on the mortgage was far behind. Hosy never asked his wife for a penny, and, after the first year, she never offered him money. Suddenly it became known that Frier had gone away. Mrs. Frier’s lips were shut in such a manner that no one dared to ask her where her husband was. She lived on in the old place, and gradually it was ac- cepted as a matter of course that she should live there, and that people should not know where Hosy was. The house began to look well kept and tidy. The mortgage was pald off. Mrs. Frier took in shoes to button from the factory in the village. She said she'd ruther button ‘em than not, for it didn’t take all her time to do her work. It was the week before Thanksgiving that Hosy had gone. The minister felt as if he ought to call, but he dreaded the duty, and put it off until the very evening before Thanksgiving. Then he came in and tried to appear us if he were only making an or- dinary visit. She was buttoning boots, and her long thread hissed in and out of the leather in such a way that the poor young man grew more confused with every mo- ment that passed. Finally he said that “it was the eve of the festiva! of good cheer.” Here he paused, telling himself that he was talking like a ‘ool. Mrs. Frier safd that she knew it was, and that she had baked pies enougi to last till March. She always did bake mince pies enough to last till March. And she made two kinds, a best and a second best. The best were marked round the edges with a key, the seconds she had just nipped the crust up with her fingers. For her part she didn’t care for fresh mince pies. She thought they improved as they grew older. Having spoken thus, Mrs. Frier made the thread hiss faster than ever. Then the young man expressed a hope that if any one bore any hard feelings in the heart those feeiings should be put aside, and forgiveness should be accorded. Then drop- ping that tone, which he was sure could never really reach any one, he sald, earnest- ly, “Mrs. Frier, you know we are always doing the wrong thing, and your husband loves you.” The woman grew white. There was a little eirele of quite a livid hue about her mouth. “TI guess we won't spend no time talkin’ like that," she had said. But when the minister, fecling as if he of nother thing to do in the| had been struck in the face, rose to go, Mra event of swallowing a pin or tack is to| Frier had asked him if he wouldn't lead in make a stiff bread poultice and to swallow | prayer. She always asked him this, and she quite a quantity. did not know why she should not do so now. over. No one could tell whether she heard the words of the prayer. It is certain that the minister knew very little. that he was saying. That was the last time any one had spoken to Mrs. Frier about her husband, and that Was ten years ago now. ‘Though nobody had told her where Hosy was, she knew he was in the poorhouse three miles away. She knew because four years ago she had seen in the town report the statement that Hosea Frier was one of the inmates; that he had arrived a few months before. And every year since she had read his name in the list of the town’s poor supported at the alms- house. At first when it was known that Hosy had come back wrecked in health, people had watched Mrs. Frier’s face as she sat in church, But they gained no satisfaction from this watching. She kept on looking at the minister. When the service was over | there was no one brave enough to mention her husband’s name to her. ‘The minister had resolved never to broach the subject again. It seemed to him that to do so would make a bad matter worse. Now as she sat in the chair at the end window and gazed out into the road, Susannah was wishing that she had not heard that chickadee. “I d’ know what's come over me,” she said aloud. She thought that she must have stood a | chance to “ketch cold,” and that the cold Was probably “settling all over her.” She reached forward took her knitting | from the stand near. This work was always | waiting on that stand for the moment when its owner should sit in this place after the | Work was done up. But though she took the i knitting, the needles lay idly in her lap. She Was still # that she had not heard | that chicka: Aad she was also thinking that she felt as Kind of run dov d all vere the spring, instea , and she needing some strengthening “He aiways did like them chicka- * She had not meaat to speak these loud, and now she had spoken them ‘as eh 4 rmed. ; She ros id went to the buttery, to that | corner where the medicines were kept. She some dandelion bitters left over from carefully measured cut Wed it. She stood an in- 5 " middie of the kit | stood with an air of indecision tha \like her self. Then, with | movement, she flung up the window is Le {which she had been sitting and put her head out ‘There was in the air ths urious odor » who live in have try mber ° mtn he heard nothin: en the pine {making no moaning sov j she drow her head in and y down, “I do « fool of my | of them sec Unable to settle | belonged to this he knitting, which Frier went again ot for bitters this time. r, and mounting it, she be- counting the mince pies, which were lying on their tops all alone on the two upper shelves. To count these ples had hitherto always been a sure means of “taking up her mind. But somehow this morning she did not feel that the occupation teak up her mind as ft ought to have done. | She lost her count twice on the ples that were marked with a key. And this fact frightened r. d that she had taken the dandelion regularly all the fall. When the seasons changed it was well to have something that worked on the liver. And dandelion was nearly as good as calo- mel, and safer. She was in the middle of the third count of the best pies when she heard the door in the L open and a step come rapidly over the uncarpeted floor. “This is Mrs. Frier’s, I know,” said a clear young volce which Mrs. Frier did not recog- nize. She scrambled down from the chair, won- dering confusedly why she seemed to be in such a hurry today. She put her hands in- voluntarily to her hair, and smoothed it within the shelter of the buttery door. Then she entered the kitchen. There stood a girl in her early teens. She had on a velvet jacket and a little velvet. turban. Her hands were thrust into her jacket pockets, and she stood as if she had just alighted rather than as if she had walked in. “I've been knocking no end at the front door,” remarked this girl, “and finally I gave It up and just made a raid in the rear. are Mrs. Frier.” ‘as the answ ing the matter anywhere? Y said the girl, “there's a lot the matter. You've got the last two cases of shoes mixed up, and they want all you've got at the factory right away. I came down with the man after them. He's waiting in the wagon. Shall! I carr ‘hem out?” ; I'll take um out myself. Be you Mr. daughter?” Is there noth- y changed a lot.” The girl's bright eyes were fixed on the woman as she responded: “You haven't changed a bit. I suppose you're always sure you're right, aren't you? “What?” “Sure you're right. When T was a little mite, and used to sit in meeting and stare at you, I was thinking all the time that you were the only person in the world who was sure you were right. I thought it must be splendid. You see, the minister told father that there couldn't anything be done wi ‘ou, because you were sure you were right. “What?” said Mrs, Frier again, and very sharply. Her face grew gradually deeply red, and then slowly became very pale. ‘The girl laughed like a thoughtless child. “Come,” she said, “please hurry up. the shoes. The Sterns’ factory is w them.” The girl noticed that the tough- looking bony hands were not steady. She idly wondered at that. She offered again to take out the shoes; but Mrs. Frier said, with some scorn, that her visitor didn't look as if she knew how to do the least thing. The girl followed the tall figure of the woman down the path to the road. “Did you ever find out what became of Mr. Frier?” asked the thoughtless voice. “Yes, I did.” There was so much savage- ness in the tone that Minnie Sterns involun- tarily paused in her waik. When they reached the gate Mrs. Frier turned to her, and there was a fire in the deep-set eyes. “Mebby you've learned a sight off to that place where you go to school, Minnie Sterns,” she said, “but I see you ain't learned to mind your own business yet.” Having said this, Mrs. Frie> flung the case of shoes in at the back of the wagon, and then went quickly to the house. When she sat down she was trembling violently. “Askin’ me what had become of Mr. Frie1 she cried, in a loud voice. “The sassy gir! There was silence for a long time now in the kitchen. Mrs, Frier was knitting rap- idly. She was not aware that she was slip- ping and binding in a perfectly less manner. At last, however, she examined the stocking. Then she placed it gently on the table. “Yes,” she said, “I'm certainly all run down, je: if "twas the spring of the year. And likely 's not my humor's ’."" She folded her hands tightly, workin’. but she did not lean back in her chair. She gazed out of the window, first at the maple tree and then at the pine. She open- ed her lips to say, “The sassy girl,” but her voice was dull. She was not thinking of Minnie Sterns; she was thinking of the chickadee she had heard, and that “he al- ways liked them birds. He said they had such good spirits.” As the day wore on, a sense of something intolerable grew stronger and stronger in Mrs. Frier’s consciousness. She announced to the solitude about her that she “was bound to werk it off." Just before the early dusk came on she pinned a little shawl about her shoulders and went out to the wood house. She split kindling there until she grazed her hand in the darkness, her hatchet going astray. She resolutely ate her supper, however. It was the regulation night for prayer meeting, and she invaria- bly attended that meeting, where she used to start hymas in a high, piercing soprano in those long pauses when no one felt called upon to speak. Tonight she began on “Coronation,” but instead of starting off at the beginning, she onfused every one by striking up on the lires, “Now hail the strength of Israel’s might, And crown Him Lord of all.” Then she stopped suddenly, and every- body looked at her. She was thinking how Hosy used to go about his chores singing those two lines. And Hosy was in the poor house. Well, he needn’t have been in the poor house if he hadn't been so shift- less. Her money would soon be all gone if she began to let him have ‘t. He never could keep any money. She must look out that she herself didn't have to go upon the town. One of the brothers was praying fervent- ly as Mrs. Frier was thinking thus. When the man sat down she quickly struck into “Coronation,” and she began and sang the same two lines, “Now hail the strength of Israel’s might, Ani crown Him Lord of all,” and again the people turned and looked at her. She stopped, as she had stopped be- fore. What she was really seeing was the figure of Hosy in his blue overalls and Jumper going to the barn with his milk pail swinging by his side; what she was really hearing was his voice, cheery and strong, singing those words, and this con- sclousness le her heart beat. There had not been y times in the ten y when she kn¢ | beat. She clasped her hands under her; lion acted on the liver w she had a heart that could was gcod for spring or fall, The dande shawl, clasped them tightly. She was grateful that the minister now said they | offered to steep these herbs, for she wanted the doxology. She stood to conciliate her husband’s aunt. would all sing up with the rest, and flung her head back, singing loudly. She was longirg to drow something, she hardly knew what. After Mrs. Frier was not going to be conciliated. the blessing the people began to go toward Sh: the door. She tried not to see the mints- said, rot even when Samuel openly con- ter, but he came directly to her, and shook tradicted himself so that he might think He said he hoped she was a8 she did. Then she gave him such a hands warmly. well. She answered that there “didn’t seem to be nothing the matter with her, only she had a kind of run-down feeling; she s'posed it was her humor.” as she spoke that the minister was looking at her with anxious scrutiny, and she re- sented that look. She turned away shortly and hurried out, fearing that some one else would speak to her. It did not seem to her that she could bear to hear another word from anybody. As she hurried along the solitary road she was telling herself that she had acted like a fool, singing as she had dcne. And why had she persisted in beginning in the middle of the hymn? It was very humiliating. Her face burned as she thought of how she had sung. She knew that all the people would taik, and say “how odd Susannah Frier had been to the prayer meet'n’. ” And the worst of it was she knew she had been odd. And she felt a quite terri- fying impulse upon her to be odd again. She fought this impulse ith all the strength she had; but all the ne she was aware that if she stopped fighting for an instant something dreadful, something un- like herself, might happen. She would have liked to break out singing in the road as she went on. But she did not. She walked so fast that she nearly ran, and when she was fumbling in her pocket for the key as she stood on the door step, she suddenly caught herself humming that hymn. She was not thinking of the hymn, however, but of Hesy as he used to fook when he went to the barn with the milk pail. Well, he was in the poor house; and that was certainly the best place for him. Her money wouldn't last if she gave it to him; and he never asked for a cent. He always told her it was safer for her to keep her own money, and she had kept it. She had been prudent, and it had accumulated in these years. When she was in the sitting room she turned up the lamp and opened the draught to the “parior base-burner.” It was warm and c there, but the woman shivered as she sat down in front of the stove. She was wishing that Hosy had some- times asked for money, and she was won- dering why so shiftless aman who was b J. ‘He was so proud o on the town than And even as she thought this, wife felt a sense of exultation in him that he had that pride. Pri she waiked round the room, pa ¢ to wind the clock. She had wound the clock night since Hosy had gone, but that had aivw: She dis ys been one of his chore could not imagine why she should inctly remember that fact now. It because she was all kind of run and had not relished her victuals She would take some more dande- lion and go to be: She wished tonight that she had a cat or a dos; Lut she had never wanted either around. She said they were always under- foot. Hosy had brought home a water- spaniel once that he had got in the way of trade. She had made him give it away, though he had pleaded that it might stay. She recalled how the dog had stood look- ing from one to the other when she and Hosy had been talking about him. Hosy had told her that if she would let him keep the dog it would get to loving her a lot. He said there was no teiling how much dogs could lov: She had laughed at that. She did not care whether dogs could love or not. It was not long after that that Hosy had gone, and she had never seen him since. She went to the window and pulled up the curtain, putting a hand each side of her face as she peered out into the black- ness. She straightened herself suddenly, and said that she was as full of notions as a witch, and it must be because her hu- mor was workin’, or mebby it was her liver which wasn’t workin’; she could not decide in her own mind which of these troubles it was. She must go to bed, for tomorrow would be Thanksgiving, and she had invited her usual company, her nephew—Samuel Glee- son—his wife, and five children. She had formed the habit of inviting them, because they were all so thrifty, and knew how to get along. Samuel already held mortgages on three houses in the village, and he could carve the turkey and help to gravy without spilling anything on the tablecloth. The turkey was to be delivered by seven in the morning. Yes, she must certainly go to bed. She had laid herself down and pulled the blankets over her before she re- membered that she had not said her pray- ers. She always knelt by the blue chintz- covered rocker near the stove. She hastily left her bed and knelt down by the chair, her long night gown enveloping her and trailing behind her on the floor, making her look like = kneeling ghost. But she could not think of a word of her She was aware &0ing to the barn to | 1 2 could find in her mind was an ex- traordinary dislike toward her nephew Sam because he was so thrifty and always had the best end of a bargain. She remained resolutely for a long time with her head bent to the cushion, trying to recall some words of prayer, and unable to take her thoughts from Sam Gleeson“and the fact that he was getting more and more beforehanded every year. At last she rose, with the wish distinctly shaped in her mind that she had not asked Sam and his family to spend this Thanks- giving with her. And she always felt when w'th him that he was hugging himself be- cause he was sure she was going to leave him her property. But he need not hug himself yet: she was going to live a long time. Perhaps she shovld adopt a child: other folks had done that. Not that she wanted a child round any more than a cat or a dog. She had put her head on the pillow again, and her mind began to wander; at Iasi she was going to sleep. But no; she sprang up. asking herself if she could not stop Sam Gleeson from coming tomorrow. And then there came a sort of terror to her because she could not think how to pra: She spent the night some way. It did not seem to her that she slept any. Still, her mind was clearer in the morning, and she knew that she must let Sam come. As she stood before the glass and combed her hair by lamp light, she thought her eyes ‘e very far back in her head, and y were brighter than common, She laughed at the thought of her being excited because Sam Glees: was coming. she should adopt a child. She thought she should go right on living in the old Frier house, and lay up all the money she could every year. The turkey was delivered promptly at seven, and while she was stuffing it a car- riage drove into the yard, and she knew that her nephew had come. With her hands covered with crumbs of soaked cracker she went to the door. Yes, there he was stepping deliberately out of that old cov- ered wagon. And he had on that brown overcoat that he had wern so long, and that was rubbed so at the seams. Mrs. Frier felt that the sight of that overcoat made her ill. There were three children on the front seat with their father, and two on the back seat with their mother. And they had put around them, instead of carriage robes, old bed comforters that showed the cotton through various holes. Mrs. Frier’s face grew black as she watched the seven human beings get out of that carriage. She was glad her fingers sere covered with turkey stuffing so that she could not shake hands with anybody. Samuel groped under the front seat, and took out a small paper bag, which he came forward holding out toward his hostess. “Jest a few cranberries, Aunt Susannah,” he said, “to go with the turkey. I wanted to bring sumpthing, but they ain’t first quality this year.” “Par sold all the best ones to the gro- ceryman,” here remarked the oldest girl, who was staring critically at Greataunt Susannah, and coming to the conclusion that she looked odd somehow; she couldn't just tell how. Mary Ann, hush up!” said Mrs. Gleeson, almost in one word. “Samwell brought’s good’s we use ourselves,” turning to Mrs. . ““n’ I s'pose that’s good ‘nough. Our cranberry medder needs tendin’ to if we expect to git nothin’ out of it. “*N* tendin’ to costs money,” said Mr. Gleeson, who was now in the kitchen, en- gaged in working himself out of his over- coat. This was an arduous task and Mary Ann was called upon to help, which as- sistance she rendered by standing up in a chair, grasping the collar of the coat and puliing back with all her might from her father. During this process she was warned by her mother not to lose her balance when the coat “began to give.” “I sh'd almost think, Sam,” said Mrs. Frier, “that you'd git a new coat. That's worn out, and you're gettin’ stout, too. I don’t s'pose you're pinched for money, be yer” This remark was so entirely at variance with his Aunt Susarnah’s attitude of mind on former occasions that poor Mr. Gleeson stared, and could not at first speak. When he did find speech he did not reply. He said he hoped aunt was as well usual. He added that it seemed to him that there was something kind of feverish in her face. There had been a good many cases of fever down in the Aldrich neighborhood. But he understood that it wasn’t Ketchin’. Mrs. Frier replied that she never was better in her life, except that she had kind of a run-down feeling’ follerin’ of her. To this Mrs. Gleeson resporded earnestly that elion and yeller dock in equal j parts | and the dock worked in the blood. She spoke anxiously and But long before the turkey was ready to put on the table it became evident that did not agree to anything there was look that Samuel grew red and wished that there was still another way for him to say he thought. Finally he sought refuge by see to his horse with such extreme frequency that his aunt at last suggested that if his horse was sick he might bette> send for a horse doctor and be done with The Gleesons always remembered that day. For a long time they counted different happenings as being so long before or after “that last Thanksgiving we spent at Aunt | Susannah’s.” By the time dinner was ready every Gleeson in the house most earnestly wished himself and herself at home. The turkey was put before Samuel, and he was about to offer a short prayer, as he had done in that same place every Thanksgiving for several years. He had lowered his head, and folded his hands across his waistcoat, in his usual attitude while addressing his Maker, when his hostess, with considerable asperity, told | him that “she guessed they'd git ‘long with- out no blessin’ that day, and he might ’s well begin to cut up that bird.” This remark fell with a paralyzing effect upon the group at the table. But, being hungry, they all rallied, and passed their plate promptly. All but Mrs. Frier, who was noticeably pale, save that her cheeks were very red. She leaned back in her chair, and looked about her with what Mrs. Gleeson, who was afterward fond of de- scribing this scene, called “a kinder wild look.” Then she said that if she should take a bit of that turkey it would choke her. She spoke quickly and loudly. The next moment she pushed back from the table, and asked, “what time they had din- ner to the poorhouse.” Without waiting for any reply, she went into the L room, and took the old shawl that she was in the habit of wearing when she fed the hens, This she pinned over her head. By the time she had done this, Samuel and his wife were also in the L, asking where she was going, and Sam said he would harness right up and take her. » you won't take me,” she answered. And she went out at the door, and started up across the field which Hosy always call- ed his door yard. Airs. Sam calied after to know if she “had got on her rubbers,” but there was no re- ply. As Mrs. Frier hurried up the sodden pas- ture the man and woman turned and looked at each @ther. Then they heard Aunt Susannah’s high soprano on the words— “Now hail the strength of Israel’s might, And crown Him Lord of all. “We can't do nothin’,” said Samuel. “She always would do jes she was a mind to. The woman walking among the sumacs and the sweet-ferns did not continue her song long. She needed her breath for her quick walking. She had taken the shortest way, and a little more than half an hour later she came out in a small plantation of birches, from which could be seen, standing on a lonely road, a large unpainted building. Mrs. Frier did not hesitate. She climbed the fence, and walked, with her head somewhat upreared, in at the back door, and directly towgrd a room where she heard the sound of voices. She opened this door, and saw a long table at which people sat eating. At the end of the room a man rose, trembling visibly as he did so. He was tall and thin, and stooped a good deal, having a feeble appearance. He stood an instant, holding on to the back of his chair. Everybody — gazing at this abruptly entering vis- or. “I came for my husband.” said Mrs. Frier loudly. “He's been here long enough. I want him to come home. I can't eat no Thanksgiving dinner ‘thout him. Hosy, is that you She took a wavering step toward the tall man, who sprang forward more quickly than he had moved for years. His wife put her arms about him, and then fainted dead away People said that faint was the beginning of the typhoid fever which kept Mrs. Frier on her bed for weeks after. But perhaps the fever began even before the swoon. Hosy nursed his wife through the illness. When every one shook a gloomy head about her he asserted that she would get well. “She'd got to get weil,” he said, with a strenuous pathos in his voice. It seemed to him that she must not die until he could tell her how many things he had learned since he had been a y, and how he had longed to come home, only he knew she wouldn't want him. He said he had “got out of the habit of spendin’ money; 'n’ he hadn’t had nothin’ to swap for so long that he didn’t want to Swap nothin’ any more.” When he was able to tell her this, with tears in his melancholy, gentle brown eyes, she turned her worn but now hopeful face toward him. “Don't you say a single thing like that, Hosy,” she replied. “You ain't learned half so much as have. I guess”—here she smiied feebly- s we'll have a Thanks- elves, ‘n’ one the gov’nor she continued, looking at didn’t appoint, him. “P’raps ‘twas the chickadee.” she said. “You know how you always liked them birds. And IT suppose the Lord soft- ened my heart. or He sent the fever, or— wall. T can’t understand it.” “Oh, Susannah,” said Hosy, “we ain't called upon to understand it.”” +00 The Fatefal Wishbone. From Truth. They were dining off fowl in a restaurant. “Yor see,” he explained, as he showed her the wishbone, “you take hold here. Then we must both make a wish and pull, and when it breaks the one who has the bigg part of it will have his or her wish granted. “But I don't know what to wish for, she protested. “Oh, you can think of something,” he 0, T can’ she replied; “I can’t think of anything I want very much.” “Well, 'H wish for you,” he exclaimed. ‘Will you, really?” she asked. ‘Yes. “Weill, then, there’s no use fooling with the old wishbone,” she interrupted with a glad smile, “you can have me.” ce ——__ s Last Laughs Best. de Blatter. | ——————— AND OHIO RAILROAD. wone 3 NOV. 19, 1598. 30 For Pittsburg and mu. and 8:40 p.m. For Lexington For Winchester . Roanoke, Knoxville, voga, Memphis and New Orleans = leeping Cars pont aad osama Luray, 3:30 p.m, daily. Baltimore, week days, 33:85, 6:00, 6:35, E 205, 59:30 (10:00, 208, 1 paw. For Hagerstown, !1 For Bord and way For Gaithersburg and way 10:00 45, 18:85, 1:30 a.m. and '5:30 p.m. points, 2. inte, 6:00, 18:00, Riss,” 90:85, “Faas, Buffet Parlor Cars on all day trains. For Atlantic City, 11 - hn and 12:00 moon. . 12:00 noon, ‘Except Ucket offices, 61: RB. CAME 9 and 1851 Pa. ave., and at Depot. 220 a nape ae chs CHESAPEAKE AND OHIO RAILWAY. Schedule in effect ovember Trains leave daily from’ Calon’ station GB. and P.), 6th ‘sts. Through the grandest in America with solid train ser the handsomest and most vice west from Wi for Cincinnati, Lexington ap change; arriving at ee le, 9:00 220 p.m. ; 4 St. Louis, 7:45 a.m., £0 ts. ‘0:57 AM. DATLY—For Old Point Comfort and “PAL” "DAILY Express for Gordonsville, Charlottesville, Waynesboré, Stauton end pal Virginia points; daily, except Sunday, for’ Rich- at company's ef- i Pullman locations an@ tickets fices, 513 and 1421 Pennsylvania avenue. H.W. FULLER, n20 General Passenger Agent. RICHMOND AND DANVILLE RAILROAD. SAMUEL SPENCER. F. W. HUIDEKOPER AND REUBEN RECEIVERS. Schedule in effect November 19, 1893. All trains arrive and leave at Pennsylvania Pas- seuger Station, Washington, D. C. 8:00 a.m. dally.—Local for Danville and inter- mediate ‘stations, and through coaches for Front Royal and Strasburg daily, Sanday, and counects at Lynchburg ‘with Norfdlk and’ Westers Stations westward daily. 11:01 a.m., Richmond an@ Danville fast matl.— Daily for Lynchburg, Danville and for pripcipal points south on Richmond and Danville system, including Anniston and Birmingsam, also Opelika, Columbus, Montgomery, Mobile and New Orleans. Pullman ‘Sleeper New’ York and Washington te Atlanta, uniting at Greensboro’ with sleeper for guste 45 p.m.—Daily for Charlottesville and tnter- ite stations. 10:43 p.m.—Daily. WASHINGTON AND SOUTR- ESTERN VESTIBULED LIMITED, eo. tirely of Pullman Sleepers and Dining apd Montgomery and Ni Ser Gneans, vis, Montgomery, ‘asiiington io N Montgomery. ew York to Augusta, Also New York to ad Hot Springs, dc. Pullman coaches. TRAINS ON WASHINGTON AND OHIO DIVIB- TON leave Washington at 9:10 4:35 p.m. daily for Round Hill, and 6:25 p. » for ‘Sunday, Herndon and intermediate stattlons. Metursing, ar. rive Washington 8:30 a.m., 2:45 p.m. from Round Hill, and 6:53 a.m. daily, except % from Herndon only. trains from the south arrive REEN, Gea. Man. W. A. TURK, Gen. Pass. L. 8. Brown, General Agent Passenger Dept. 020 PENNSYLVANIA RAILROAD. STATION ¢ IN 11:05 AM. PRCT NOVEMBER 19, 1898, FAST LINE.—For Pittsburg, Parlor Cars to Pittsburg. 11:05 A.M. PENNSYLVANIA LIMITED.—Pallmas Drawing and State Room, Sleeping, Dining, Smok- ing and Observation Cars Harrisburg to = i, ‘is and Cleveland. Bullet rh allman Roffet Parlor Car to Ha ing Harrisburg to ae0. VESTERN EXPRESS.—Pullman Siecping Car to St. Louls and Sleeping and Diaing Cars Harrisburg to Clncinnatt. 10:40 ACIFIC EXPRESS.—Pullman Sieep- ing Car to Pittsburg and Buitet Sleeping Car Har risburg to Chicago. 7:50 A.M. for Kane, Canandaigua, Rochester an@ sara Falis duily, except Sunday. - for Williamsport, Renovo and Elmira except Sunday. For Williamsport daily, Pr. M. for, Willameport. Rochester, Buffalo and cara Valls daily, except Saturday, with Sleep- ing Cor Washington to Buffalo. 10.40 p.m. for Erte, Buffalo A Niagara daily, except Xuruniays with Sleeping Car "Washington to POR TILADELPHIA, NEW YORK AND THE lor ew York daily. for Philadelphia week 7:20, 9:00, nad agg | “0, Dining Cat), PM. = ‘Sunday. 7:20, 9:00, 11:00 A.M. 2s (ining Car), 3:15, 4:20, 10:00 and P.M. For Philadelphia only, Fast AM. week days. iis. For Heaton, without change, 7:50 A.M. week days and 3:15 P.M. daily. For Baltimore, 6:25, 7:20, 7:80, 9:00, 9:40, 11:00, 11: and 11:50 A.M.. 12:15, 1s (4:00 Limited), 4:20, 10:40, 11:15 and 1 9:00, 9: days. Car) and 11:00 A.M. 12:18, 1, 4:20, 10:00 E wania a a orders POTOMAC RIVER BOATS. WASHINGTON STEAMBOAT ©O., ee: M P Steamer s and SATURDAYS at 7 a.m. for Nomi and intermediate landings. THURSDAYS and SUNDAYS. (See schedule.) Steamer T. V. Arrowsmith on MONDAYS an@ WEDNESDAYS at 3:00 p.m. for Alexandria, Cole- nial Beach and all lower river land: leaves Kinsale TUESDAYS and_ TH 38 for return landing?, arriving at Was WED NESDAY and FRIDAY MORNINGS. On SATUR- DAYS at 5:20 p. for Colonial Beach, Colten’s, ‘st. “George's Island, Smith creek, Beet ny Yeoconiico; returning leaves Kinsale, ar Fiving at, Washington SUNDAYS about 10 p= —— General Manager. este ~NEW PALACE STEAMER HARRY RANDALL bat ier | Frida: on Mondays, Wednesdays oth boar of wall ‘Telephone, 2 a. F. S. RANDALL, NORFOLK AND WASHINGTON STEAMBOAT OO BETWEEN WASHINGTON, BD. DAILY LINE OE TRESS MONROF sod gs SHINGTON AND NORFOLK—SOUTH WASHING Tshington daily at 7 p.m. trom foot at qth st. wharf, arrive at Fortress Monroe at 6:30 ee “next day. Arrive at Norfolk at 7:30 a.m, ‘connections are made for all pointe ae Norfolk Gaily at 6:10 9 Leave Fortvese daily at 6:10 p.m. —— at 7:1. p.m. Arrive at Wasbingtos et Ticke ‘sole nt 518, 619, 1351 and 1621 Pens enn eae ‘Ask for tickets via the pew line. Te! sphote apiece weer ~~